


The Good New Days

by coffeeinlondon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Harry taking control of his own future, Independent Harry Potter, Kinda, Prologue, Sane Voldemort, Smart Harry Potter, azkaban break-in, wand stealing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 06:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12977994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinlondon/pseuds/coffeeinlondon
Summary: Short scenes exploring what might have happened had Harry known from the beginning. Including a rebelling child, a soul-reunion, wand stealing, old men panicking, and a prison break-out.Might develop into a longer work, currently only a prologue-esque short-story.





	The Good New Days

**Author's Note:**

> First published work here guys, so give a girl some slack. That being said, constructive criticism is always welcome :)
> 
> *Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter (unfortunately), nor do I make any profits out of this
> 
> \- Lulu
> 
> (btw, the Eurostar trains did in fact not open before 1994, however because of creative licences and disregard for cannon (real life cannon that is), let’s say it opened in the 1980s instead, shall we *winky face*)

 

A young boy, not much older than six, sat by himself in one of the window seats of the train carriage, his bright, green eyes tracing a small raindrop slowly making its way down the glass. Outside the rain poured steady and relentlessly, beating softly against the train carriage and creating a soothing rhythmical music. None of the other occupants of the train paid the small boy any mind. Indeed, if any of them thought it strange that such a young boy was travelling all by himself from England to somewhere on the continent, they had all yet to outwardly expressed any concerns.

The boy leaned his head back against his seat, removing his glasses and giving them a swipe with the black sleeve of his jumper before placing them on his nose again, his eyelids were heavy with a sense of calm and satisfaction one experiences after a job well done. His hands played with a one of the straps of his leather backpack and his feet rested on the opposite seat, beside a wooden chest and a rolled-up overcoat with just the slightest smattering of dust on the edges.

The inside of the train was a stark contrast to the turmoil outside, a pleasant warmth spreading through his tired bones and the yellowish glow of the lights on the red velvet seats and dark brown accents brought with it a comforting feeling of familiarity and safety that the little boy let himself indulge in. Before the boy allowed himself slip off into the realm of sleep, his right hand slid lazily, and almost reassuringly, against the outside of his right thigh, pressing against something solid and cylindrical and tracing the shape from tip to tip.

As the first strike of thunder sounded in in the train carriage, the little boy nodded off to sleep. A small, contented smile gracing his lips.

 

\---

 

In a darkened forest deep in the wilds of Albania, a predator expertly stalked her pray through the thick underbrush, her green scales seamlessly blending in with her surroundings. She didn’t have as much time to hunt as she usually used to have, now that her body was a vessel for two. She didn’t understand the being that had come to her one day, at the end of last year’s cold season, and spoken to her so prettily. But now it was her job to protect it and guard it, by keeping her body strong and able. It would speak to her sometimes, offering advice or warnings about how to chase down her prey or how to avoid the two-legged predators who sometimes wandered into her forest with noisy footsteps and noisier voices. Though, for most of their time together it was quiet, hidden away somewhere she couldn’t reach it.

She had just curled up, preparing to strike at the unsuspecting boar, when she suddenly felt a lurch, making her upper body stagger forward to regain her balance. But the lurching continued to pull at her, reminding her of the few times her food hadn’t stayed down after she had finished her meal. A thoroughly unpleasant experience.

However, this was different. It was as though her entire being was being moved back and forth without her will, and she felt sometime stirring in the recesses of her mind. It had woken up. And it seemed excited, like she was before a good hunt.

Suddenly, several bright blue lights seemed to materialise above the forest floor, making her prey panic and take off among the trees. The lights seemed to glow and flicker, never staying still but not quite moving. The great snake curled up on herself, her eyes hurt by the lights’ intensity.

Then, belying the significance of everything that was transpiring, the blue lights slowly coalesced into one above the great forest predator. The last and biggest piece slowly tearing and ripping at the smaller, more primitive soul of the snake in its haste to leave its former host.

With the connection of the last piece of shimmering blue, the light intensified into something magnificent, paining the forest floor and trees in a white glow so fierce it was almost lethal to some of the forest dwellers near enough to witness the splendour. As the light slowly faded out, the shape of a man could vaguely be made out amongst the endless trees, standing naked and proud with his head bowed towards the earth and his chest rising and falling rapidly. At his feet lay the prone, dead body of an almost twelve feet long snake, its beautiful green scales glimmering softly in the moonlight.

The man lifted his head, opened his eyes to the forest canopy, and inhaled the smell of green and earth. His lips stretched into a grin as he slowly licked his dry lips, the glint in his dark eyes more predatory than any the snake at his feet had ever possessed.

The sky above him rumbled ominously, and then it opened up to send down the first few drops of rain. They streamed down the man’s face and naked body, first serving to cool down his searing blood and then to raise goose bumps along his arms and legs to protect him from the climate.

With an expression of cold malice marring his face, the man threw his head back to face the punishing rain and _laughed_. A loud, ominous sound that made prey scurry into hiding and sent shivers down the spine of even the most dangerous and courageous of predator.

 

\---

 

The Headmaster’s Office usually served as his innermost sanctum. Filled with almost every and all of his most valued and practical possessions, it was the place he could let his guard down, and more importantly, where he didn’t need to worry about anything or anyone. Because up in his tower he had all the means at his disposal to monitor and make certain that everything was well. That everything was going according to plan.

Thus, after his descent up the tower and the entrance of his office, his shoulders slowly slumped over and his chest gave rise to a sigh he rarely let out when in the company of others.

He then leisurely made his way over to his desk, humming a nonsensical tune over the top his breath and twirling the end of his beard between three fingers. He felt accomplished today, for indeed it had been quite the successful day if he did say so himself. Everything was as it should be, and the old Headmaster felt content to flicker through todays paperwork while humming the same tune as before. He couldn’t quite remember the song, but it was an altogether uplifting tune that required great aptitude in changing one’s register from a deep baritone to a piercing falsetto.

The reports from his dutiful Deputy Head had just been reviewed and commended, with a flourishing little animation of a smiling cat in the corner of a particularly lengthy report, when the old man wearily rose from his desk to retire for the night.

Not before leaving through one of the secret passages leading to his bedchambers, however, the Headmaster strolled across the polished floors over to a shelf of seemingly meaningless and peculiar inventions and knickknacks thrown together in a right eyesore.

They all seemed to be in order, as was expected, but right before the weary old man turned his back to the shelf, already fantasizing about the bubble-bath awaiting him, he noticed something at the corner of his eye. Or rather, he did not notice something at the corner of his eye. Because where a turquoise, half-bent sneakoscope on wheels should have been whirling away, giving off the occasional spark or sizzle, there now stood only a half-bent, and now also only half-grey, wheel-y sneakoscope.

The Headmaster blanched and felt his heart speed up. Closing his now alert eyes, he opened them again hoping above hope to see even just a tiny sizzle. But to no luck.

The flight back to his desk was done at such a speed that a spectator surely would not believe their eyes. And the old man whom for all intents and purposes had looked and acted just like an old man should, if a bit more eccentric, seemingly disappeared in the flurry of a white beard and navy robes. A hardened leader took the old mans place, with steel in his eyes and determination in his shoulders.

A quill flew over the desk, hastily scribbling down some lines while the Headmaster sorted through his drawers. Then, the items required where supposedly in their place, because at the next moment the old man stretched out his hand and called;

“To Privet Drive!” before disappearing in a gust of orange flames.

 

\---

 

The old wandmaker had stayed oblivious to the raging winds and summer rain hailing outside his little shop. From the warm backroom, with his workbenches and fireplace, no ill could seem to befall him as he continued his work. He had been at it for hours now. Though that was a normal occurrence for the devoted wandmaker, whom often spent his evenings treating freshly harvested wood or gently handling bits and pieces of treasured cores, all done with the same avid attention and care.

Tonight he had been working on a particularly feisty piece of wood, a springy piece of cherry that had gotten it over itself that it would rather not be paired with the twinkling strand of unicorn tail hair that the wandmaker had spent the previous afternoon preparing. True to its nature, the cherry piece was a difficult wood to handle, both in the hand of its eventual owner and for the poor wandmakers trying their hand at treating the wood.

Wrinkling his nose and letting out a huff, the wandmaker decided to delay his efforts by preparing a nice, hot cup of tea. Something to take his mind of the cherry endeavour. No use trying to make the wood compliant if he himself was in a fit after all.

Making his way past the workbench and into the main interior of the shop, still paying no mind to the howling weather rattling the windowpanes, the wandmaker shuffled to the back of his shop with his mind still on binding runes and soothing herbs. And just a flick of his wand later, a mug of steaming water sat serenely on the countertop, between sheets of parchment and blunted carving tools.

An accio and a bag of fresh tealeaves later, the wandmaker was back at his workstation, musing on the different magical properties of acacia honey and whether it would be best infused with Argentinean silverweed or Swedish bilberries. At least it would take his mind of the cherry.

Unbeknown to the contemplating wandmaker was the slightly dented corner of his front door, where an inconspicuous rune now rested calmly on the underside of the ledge, out of view for anyone not looking for it. Accompanying this small discrepancy was the slightly louder stillness from among the dusty shelves of wands, easily overlooked in favour of the noisy storm ravaging the Alley outside. However, had the wandmaker been more attuned to these slight changes, he would have come to notice a particular silence from one of the wand cases. This one box, hidden away amongst its brothers and sisters, was not the loudest, nor the most attention seeking of wands, however, ever since its creation many decades in the past, the wand had been letting out its own consistent hymn. Filling the shop with a clear tune, imbued with notes of mourning and anticipation both, for those with attentive ears and a talent in the art of woodwork. After decades of this lonely tune, its loss would surely have confounded the wandmaker, had he noticed its absence.

Because the dusty, dark case previously containing a well-made piece of holly, now sat empty on the shelf. No longer singing its hymn.

 

\---

 

The Weasley household was louder than usual. Which was certainly saying something considering the normal noise level generated from the brood of unruly children and their matriarch with no qualms about ending each inevitable shouting-match between her youngsters by shouting louder than both of them combined. Her second son, Charlie, was playing outside with the twins, their delighted shrikes and war cries heard through the kitchen window as their mother shook her head at their antics. It had been raining all of last night and into the morning, the weather only clearing while the Weasleys were having lunch. Taking the blue sky as an indicator, the three menaces had been quick to polish off their plates and had been at it ever since, their red hair and pale skin now all matching the brown mud they had taken to wrestling in.

Her youngest son, Ronald, had been more sensible and had followed his mother’s stern advice about getting ill, thus he was running around the living room instead, half naked and flailing about with a toy hippogriff, which his little sister was watching and laughing about from the couch. Dinner was almost ready and Mrs. Weasley knew the commotion was far from over. If playtime at the Weasleys was a ruckus, then mealtime was complete pandemonium.

The WWN was broadcasting Celestina Warbeck’s new hit, prompting the matriarch to hum along and sway back and forth in her domain as she brandished her wand and spatula with equal finesse. Just as Mrs. Weasley was about to put the scalding pots and pans on the table and summon the tableware, a shrill scream sounded from the upper levels of the Burrow.

With the expertise only attainable by the most competent of mothers, Mrs. Weasley was immediately able to identify the source and possible causes for the clamour. And she did not like her premonitions.

Hurrying up the rickety stairs to the bedroom of the most studious of her sons, her dear Percy, the mother came to a prompt stop at the landing of the stairs, the tear stricken, desolate face of her son making her pause.

“Mh- mom!” her son exclaimed, frantically wringing his hands together as more tears gathered in his eyes.

“What is it, honey,” she tried to calm him down, settling a hand on his shoulder and gazing at him softly.

“I-it’s, it’s Scabbers mom. Sc- Scabber, he’s, he’s in there,” he pointed at his own room, eyes never leaving his mother.

Scabbers, their pet rat, had been Percy’s loyal companion ever since he found his way into their back garden all those years ago, accompanying the boy to Hogwarts and following after him wherever he went. At first Mrs Weasley hadn’t been particularly pleased with the rodent’s presence, concerned about disease and poor behaviour, but not long after Scabbers became a permanent resident of the Burrow the woman had warmed up to the rat, and now found him quite charming and well-mannered.

The sight that met her after she entered her son’s room, however, was not very charming. Her first suspicions after seeing Percy’s face and taking in his words was that the poor rodent had succumbed to old age or a malevolent malady, but the scene in front of her negated that belief.

In the middle of the room, on the orange carpet with flying, winged keys that Percy had inherited from his older brother, Bill, lay what was left of his rat. The rat carcass, for it was more bones than flesh at the moment, produced a strong odour of decay and blood that made Mrs Weasley cover her nose and mouth in an effort not be sick. Dried blood flecked the carpet and surrounding furniture in a burnished brown, grey-black fur had been ripped to shreds and the rodent’s intestines had all been ejected and displayed.

Worst of all, however, was the little creature’s face, turned towards the spectators at the door and set in a grimace so vivid, so humanlike, that it made Mrs Weasley break out in a sob of sympathy and fright. Scabbers looked absolutely terrified, his wide bulging eyes open, with the black pupils dilated so much one couldn’t see the colour of the stark white irises, and the little mouth opened in a silent scream of terror and anguish.

Hastily, Mrs Weasley stumbled back out of the room, shakily closing the door and turning to face her pale son. Strong motherly arms wrapped themselves around Percy’s shoulders, holding on for dear life. And as the mother consoled her son, she felt a single tear make its way down her cheek.

 

\--- 

 

“Stop!” a desperate voice echoed through the dark, chilling halls. “Ha-help me someone! Please! I-I, I didn’t do it, I di-, didn’t mean to! Please!”

Her shoulders flexed against the rough stones at her back, the thin fabric of scratchy wool serving to do nothing more than to agitate her raw, freezing form even more. The bars were silent today. No one had come for her, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did. The dark cloaked halfwits liked it when their prey were emotional. When they screamed and pleaded for mercy, like the despairing soul making a ruckus outside.

She didn’t care. Before being forced onto this wretched island she didn’t have any regrets. And she hadn’t developed any since either. However many times the vile, loathsome creatures got inside her head, trying to torment her with memories and thoughts from her past she would cackle with glee and lash out in rage. Every time their hateful, cold hands touched her cheeks she would laugh in their face, spittle flying everywhere, and her trembling hands would claw at their skeletal wrists, and anything else she got a hold of. She had clawed herself bloody to the point where the dirt-blooded, worthless cowards guarding the repulsive shack had on one occasion sedated her and wrapped her hands, from finger to elbow, in medical gauze.

Before, the cretins used to torment her almost daily, drawing on her strength until she became a hallow shell of who she used to be. But she persisted. She filled every crack and tear they left in her mind, with jumbled thoughts and distorted memories until even the brainless soul-suckers became hesitant around her, as if sensing the vortex of fanaticism and madness now soaked into her very core.

It made her stronger. After all, she was the Dark Lord’s Commander, a favoured one in his glorious ranks, and she would not fall to the disgusting mind-meddling of silly, glorified ghosts.

No, she would survive and come out victorious. She was sure of it. She could do nothing else.

Then, very suddenly, there was a large bang, followed by a high-pitched ringing in her ears which promptly made the disturbed witch stop scratching against the wall. The floor and bars of her cell shook in distress, dust, debris and pieces of rock falling from the ceilings, a head-sized boulder hitting the floor just outside her cell door.

Excitedly, she unsteadily got to her feet, clapping her hands and tiptoeing around the fallen shrapnel with her bare feet. The ringing in her head sounded like music and the crumbling walls provided her with an earthly rhythm as she swayed her hips and cracked the bones in her neck and back.

More distressed calls and cries for salvation that wouldn’t come. There was the unmistakable sound of someone dying a painful death just a few cells to her left, whilst the occupant to her right could be heard hulking pathetically. Then the shouting started. She thoughts she recognised the gravelly voice of her husband shouting down the hall, not in peril, oh no, his shouts were those of triumph. And he was joined by many more as the old squad came together with a war cry echoed loudly and frightening through the halls.

She joined the chorus with her own brand of jubilation. Her shrill cackling laughter quieting the cries around her and filling the halls with terror.

The shaking stopped after a few more moments, her swaying feet stumbled as their rhythm was disturbed, but she paid them no heed as she sauntered unsteadily to the bars of her cell, gripping one in each of her pale, skeletal hands.

“One two three and the little witch is free” she whispered in a haunting, scratchy voice, whilst giving the bars a little shove.

The entire front of her cell seemed to lean backwards, balancing on one of its edges before gravity succeeded in sending the entire structure clattering to the floor, the loud metallic sound reverberating through her body and mind like a wave. The entire foul prison seemed to hold its breath, even the frigid air waited in suspense as she swayed forward, her body bending at the hip and her face slowly emerging around into the open hall. When nothing seemed to happen after moving headlong through the space where her bars should have been, the woman again opened her mouth to produce a rasping chuckle.

Without further ado, she leapt into the middle of the empty hallway, and shouted manically “What are you waiting for! You filthy cowards!”

The screech seemed to wake up the hushed prison, as one after the other, thin, skeletal forms dressed in rags and grime made the halls echo with their own falling bars and roaring howls of triumph.

She jumped around excitedly, not spearing a glance for her husband, staggering towards her from down the hall, but continuing on down the hallway, following the chill.

There, at the very end of the passage, a corner of the accursed structure, was a gaping hole letting in the muggy sea breeze and icy rain. She skipped down towards the drop, scattering small stones and debris with her frozen feet and waving her arms around in big circles. She might have continued past the first layer of broken stone making up the edge of the now deadly drop down to the stones and sea below, had it not been for a strong hand clasping her upper arm.

“Let go Roddy, I’m looking for stars!” she remarked with annoyance, disregarding the pulling force of the hand but taking advantage of it by leaning over the abyss, with her hands still stretched out to the side.

“Not quite, dearest Cousin. Besides, I’m told I am the brightest star one could ever need” came the gruff response, in a tone both serious and amused.

The woman quickly pushed herself back, gripping the hand still holding onto her. Big, bewildered grey eyes met an equally grey pair as the cousins locked eyes on one another, both surrounded by tired, greying skin and containing a mania not solely caused by their current place of residence.

“You look good Bella, at least considering how this hellhole usually treats the ladies” The man’s lips quirked even as his voice cracked on his last word.

“So, they did after all have the sense to lock you up where you belonged, little Cousin” Her smile was broader, with sharp teeth and sharper eyes.

 

\---

 

On the streets of magical Brussels, a small boy expertly manoeuvred his way through the tick crowds, duking under arms and weaving between suitcases and moving limbs. The wooden chest and stuffy overcoat were nowhere to be seen, and the boy’s clothes had also changed since his arrival in the city just a few days ago. The glasses had been discarded as well, but instead of squinting like he had on the train, the boy’s eyes moved with rapid speed from one object to another, analysing and calculating the movements of the crowd.

In his left hand he was clutching a slightly creased newspaper, the heading was in Dutch but the article at the front was in English.

It read; ‘MASS BREAKOUT OF AZKABAN! 303 WANTED CRIMINALS ON THE LOOSE! BRITISH MINISTRY IN SHAMBLES! IF SEEN, DO NOT APPROACH!’, followed by page upon page of prisoner head-shots, detailing their criminal record, descriptive details and their place on the country’s most wanted list.

The picture with the biggest crease was one of a deranged-looking man shouting manically at the camera, the text read; ‘Sirius Black, mass-murderer, black hair, grey eyes, 5’9’’, 195th of Belgium’s Most Wanted, DO NOT APPROACH’

The little boy smiled again, but this time it was full of playfulness and cunning. The game had been completely turned on its head, and he was ready to start playing. (After all, he would definitely approach, and not even with caution)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Weary-eyed sighs and exacerbated eye rolls?
> 
> I dare you to post a comment telling me your favourite scene
> 
> \- Lulu


End file.
